Three Songs

Far in a western brookland
  That bred me long ago
The poplars stand and tremble
  By pools I used to know.

There, in the windless night-time,
  The wanderer, marvelling why,
Halts on the bridge to hearken
  How soft the poplars sigh.

He hears: no more remembered
  In fields where I was known,
Here I lie down in London
  And turn to rest alone.

There, by the starlit fences,
  The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
  About the glimmering weirs.

Still my baby, hush my darling, 
Golden stars drift all about your bed; 
And while the soft grey veils of sleep 
Over your little helpless body creep 
Mine arms shall fold you 
Close, and hold you 
Bathed in the dews of the spirit's fountain head. 

From your sleepy world of dreams and stars 
Stretch out your tiny hands rememb'ring me. 
Through pallid mists and memories 
My sweet dead stars fall in the sighing seas. 
You have I only, I that am lonely, 
O give me love as I give love to thee! 

When I was one-and-twenty
 I heard [a wise man]1 say,
"Give crowns and pounds and guineas
 But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
 But keep your fancy free."
But I was one-and-twenty,
 No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
 I heard him say again,
"The heart out of the bosom
 Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
 And sold for endless rue."
And I am two-and-twenty,
 And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.